


Wrap You Up in Daisy Chains

by objectlesson



Series: Daisy Chains [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Body Hair Kink, Coming Out, D/s undertones, F/F, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Girl Direction, Louis is cute and butch!!!, all of the boys are girls, lesbian angst, pubic hair worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Ten minutes later, an awkward, long-legged, curly-haired, so pale she’s reflective, andso obviously gay-lookingHarry Styles is sitting shotgun next to Louisin a bikini, denim cut-offs, and heart-framed sunnies.---Or, Harry and Louis and a too-small bathing suit.





	Wrap You Up in Daisy Chains

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to write girl!direction since forever, and it finally happened!!! A friend of mine (hi dad knees) wrote an amazing head canon about a beach trip and Harry staring at Louis's pubes which are showing through her suit, and I LOVE body hair and also the beach, so I stole the prompt an ran with it. I deviated quite a lot from the original idea, but you can still see it if you squint! 
> 
> Some things to consider:  
> 1\. Nyla= Niall, Leean= Liam, Veronica= Zayn. Harry and Louis are just Harry and Louis.  
> 2\. I wanted this to just be porn, but it ended up turning into a sort of meditation on how lesbians often feel predatory when we like or look at girls. It seemed weird not to address that writing from a lesbian perspective, so there's more angst and interiority in here than I often write, but of course there's a sweet happy ending so never fear!!!  
> 3\. Happy birthday Kim!!!!!

Louis rolls down her window and sticks her head out, leaning her elbow into the horn so that it emits a long, high bleat. “Gemmmmaaaa, c’mon,” she yells. She feels like she’s been waiting for ages; the car’s air con is broken, making the rest of her friends shift uncomfortably in the back seat, where it’s even sweatier and stickier. She just wants to get to the beach already--wants to cartwheel her way down the sand, crash into the seaside surf, spread out on her beach towel to sun herself, and watch the tourist girls in their bikinis. Gemma texted she was coming, but she's taking forever, so Louis sighs, turns off the car, and throws the door open. “Don’t get heatstroke, ladies, m’gonna go see what’s up.” 

Nyla grunts half-heartedly, and Veronica frowns behind her giant cat-eye sunnies, but no one tries to stop her as she skips up the landing to Gemma’s bungalow and raps on the door with her knuckles. “Gem?” 

Louis hears footsteps and some distant yelling before Gemma opens the door a minute or so later, looking thoroughly frazzled, white-blonde hair up in a messy bun, cheeks flushed, and eyes flashing in irritation. “ _Sorry,_ Lou,” she says, crossing her arms. “M’having a bit of a row with me mum…m’not sure I can make it. Meant to just sneak out, but she caught me, of course, and—” 

In seconds, Anne Twist (who Louis perhaps refers to as the MILF to end all MILFs when Gem’s not around) appears behind Gemma, her mouth flattened out into a sympathetic line. “Lou, love,” she sighs, “m’afraid Ms. Gemma here failed to tell you that she’s grounded for the rest of the month. So sorry.” 

Gemma rolls her eyes, and Louis giggles a little. It’s very like Gemma to try and sneak out in the middle of an epic grounding, and it’s very like Anne to apologize on her behalf. “Terrible, Gem, just terrible. Guess we’ll have an empty seat in the car, but the other girls won’t mind,” Louis shrugs. “One of them can come up shotgun...was saving it for you, actually. Seniority and all. Shame you’ll be missing out,” Louis says lightly, popping her hip out. 

Gemma grumbles wordlessly, but Anne’s eyes light up. “Oh, Louis, you have an extra seat? Would you be a dear and consider taking Harry out today? She’s been in an awful mood and could really use some time outdoors, some fresh air, I think.” 

Louis’s stomach drops, her blood going cold. Every woman in the Styles/Twist household is unfairly attractive, but Gemma’s eighteen-year-old sister Harry is practically _intolerable_ , at least by Louis’s standards. Louis has a thing for gangly, dorky girls, and Harry is nothing if not gangly and dorky. She also has the prettiest lips and the lowest voice, and the queer vibes she gives off are so intense that Louis has been able to sense them since Harry was a skinny, knobby-kneed, 5th-year tomboy. Louis hates going to the beach with girls she’s actively attracted to beyond a surface-level admiration for their prettiness; it makes her feel weird and predatory and self-conscious, like she doesn’t know where she’s supposed to look, where her eyes can rest. She rubs her face with her palms so that there’s an excuse for how pink her cheeks have surely gotten. 

“What?! Harry can go, but I can’t?” Gemma whines, and Anne’s eyes narrow in a very mummish way. 

“Harry didn’t stumble in drunk at three in the morning last Saturday, madam,” she says, before shifting her gaze to Louis and softening a bit. “You wouldn’t mind?” 

And Louis, because she’s apparently an idiot with no self-preservation instinct and clearly _wants_ to make her beach trip weird, just grins brightly and says, “Sure, we’d love to have her. Send her down.” 

Anne squeezes Louis reassuringly on the shoulder, where her skin is golden and shiny with sunscreen. “Thanks, love. I’ll go see if I can get her out of her room.” 

—-

Ten minutes later, an awkward, long-legged, curly-haired, so pale she’s reflective, and _so obviously gay-looking_ Harry Styles is sitting shotgun next to Louis _in a bikini, denim cut-offs, and heart-framed sunnies_. Louis is sort of petrified by this unforeseen turn of events, so she’s overcompensating by being even louder and more obnoxious than usual, which translates into blasting ‘90s boybands for raucous singalongs and throwing all the wrappers of the gum she’s been serial-chewing into the back seat and subsequently into Leann’s lap. “Tommo, quit,” she grumbles, throwing them back up into the driver's side in fistfuls. “I _still_ don’t understand why _Harry_ is up there when you were saving the front seat for Gemma because she's oldest. Harry’s the _youngest_ , so technically, I—”

“Payno, shut up,” Louis snaps, throwing another wrapper over her shoulder without looking, hoping that it lands on the appropriate person. “Harold is our guest, and m’not gonna banish her to that sweaty back seat with you lot, yeah? Anyway, you wouldn’t be up here if we were going by seniority, Veronica would, and _she’s_ not complaining. Learn how to count.” Louis flicks her eyes cautiously to Harry as she says it, trying to track her reaction, get a read on her. She knows Harry isn't _actually_ shy; she’s seen her sing songs at school talent shows, and she definitely has the capability to be a ham, but she’s been very, very quiet all day, even now, as she cracks a crooked smile at her own lap at Louis’s mostly one-sided banter with Leann. 

Louis turns up the music, hoping Justin Timberlake’s heartfelt croon drowns out anything they say up here. 

“Hey,” Louis says quietly, reaching across the divide between their seats and tapping Harry gently on the bare leg. “How’re you doing? I know we're more your sister’s mates than yours… are you bored?” She tries to keep her voice gentle, approachable, even though her fingers are trembling as they brush against Harry’s soft skin. She thinks back to Anne’s proposal, her implication that Harry hasn’t been feeling well. “S’everything alright?” 

Harry shrugs, eyes flicking to Louis carefully. “M’not bored, not at all,” she answers, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. It’s very cute, so cute that Louis’s glad she fixed her own gaze back on the road. Harry’s the type of girl you could crash a car over. “Just…I dunno, intimidated, a little?” 

Louis’s raises her eyebrows. “You don’t need to be. M’a bit younger than Gem, so we’re only, like…two years apart? S’barely anything.” 

“I guess,” Harry says slowly, picking at the frayed hem of her cut-offs with chipped nails. There are polish remnants on them, one finger red and another gold. Louis wants to know what colour each one was originally painted, if it was two colours or more, three, five, a whole rainbow. She wants to know a lot of things about Harry but doesn’t know how to ask a single one. 

“How about the beach? Do you like to swim? ‘Fraid of sharks?” Louis jokes, and at least Harry laughs at that, a sort of low, reluctant chuckle.

“I love to swim, actually. Or, usually…I dunno. S’been sort of a shitty summer for me. Nothing to do with you guys, I appreciate the invite, really. Just…have stuff going on,” she explains, frowning before shrugging, like it doesn’t really matter because she’s not going to get into it. 

Louis chews the inside of her cheek, thinking about how much she _wishes_ Harry would get into it. She wants to know why Harry’s summer has been less than ideal, if there’s a way that she, personally, can make it better. Louis shakes her fringe out of her eyes, half-annoyed at herself for her predictability. “Sorry…that things have been so shitty,” Louis says eventually, words coming out in a cramped jumble. She narrows her eyes at the stretch of road ahead, grateful she’s wearing big aviators so that half her face is hidden, at least. “Wanna talk about it? Or just…have a fun day at the beach and forget about it instead?” 

Harry tilts back thoughtfully, letting her head loll against the seat a bit. Louis steals glances at her; she can’t _help it_ , Harry’s eyes are breathtakingly green. She keeps chewing her lips, too, and Louis doesn’t know if she’s wearing a tinted gloss, or if they’re really just _that_ pink. “The latter,” Harry decides eventually, looking at Louis and smiling. “But…thank you, really, for asking n’talking to me. I know m’sort of like the tag-along sister, but s’nice you’re not treating me like that.” 

Lois swallows thickly, studying the road and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I don't think you’re like a tag-along sister, for the record,” she says, wishing her voice wasn’t coming out so high and reedy. It’s incriminating. 

“Noted,” Harry says, and when Louis looks at her, there’s a soft, complacent smile curling up at the corners of her mouth. 

Louis might spend the rest of the drive dreaming of kissing it. 

—-

When they get there, it’s colder than it was at home, but Louis supposes that’s just what happens when you drive out to the sea, so she tries not to let it deter her from her dreams of sunshine and sand. They park too far away and end up having to collectively haul their bags and towels and snacks and whatnot several blocks down to the shore, whooping and hollering and teasing, Veronica already half-out of her black sundress she’s so eager to get into the water once they make it, Nyla and Leann shucking gym shorts and cut-offs, not far behind.

Normally, Louis would be all over this, screaming and shoving and barreling her way down to the waves, too, but instead she’s carefully watching Harry, who seems to already be in lighter spirits. She and Nyla are joking about something, imitating someone they both know and cracking up over it as they stagger through the sand. Louis smears sunscreen on her arms again so that she has an excuse to watch Harry toss her head back, laugh, and slap her own knees like a proper dad, face spitting into something so big and joyful and open. _You have a beautiful smile,_ she thinks of telling her, but Louis only knows how to compliment her friends who already _know about her_ , know that she’s queer. It feels weird when it’s something undiscussed, uncharted. 

Harry collapses onto a beach towel, digging her painted toes into the sand. Just red this time, Louis notes, a light cherry sort of red with a metallic shimmer to it. “S’there a better sunscreen? M’gonna burn to a crisp if I don’t put on something serious,” Harry says to no one in particular, and in seconds, Louis is swooping in, rummaging through her own backpack for the bottle of zinc she knows is in there somewhere. 

“I’ve got you, Harold,” she crows, dumping the tube into her lap before sitting down beside her. “Think if I sit next to you, I’ll get a tan?” 

“S’possible,” Harry chuckles, squeezing a generous amount of zinc into her big palms before spreading it onto her legs laboriously. Louis watches her white skin get streaked in even whiter cream, everything flickering and pale and shiny and sweet, like vanilla ice cream. She sighs, thinking that Harry would be very smooth under her hands if she ever got to touch her, that girlish-silk of recently shaved skin. “Though you’re already pretty tan.” 

“Ah, yes, from all my time in tanning beds,” Louis jokes, and Harry snorts, shooting her an amused look, green eyes silly and wide and perfect, like seaglass. Louis’s stomach flips over. 

“Really?!” she asks, laughing, and Louis giggles back, endeared. 

“Nah, course not. S’just from skating,” she says, waving a hand through the air. 

“I think it’s cool that you skate...I tried once, but I fell a hundred times and gave up. Can hardly ride a bike, if I’m honest,” Harry admits, squeezing more sunscreen out and rubbing it into her padded white belly now, up to her sternum and under the strings of her simple red bikini. She’s quite flat-chested, so the triangles of it shift dangerously over the small, soft swells of her chest, and as badly as Louis wants to keep looking, she feels horrible for looking in the first place, so she averts her gaze quickly, choosing to stare at the sea instead, where the other girls are already capering about in the white frothy surf. She can hear Harry slicking her neck and shoulders, and try as she might, she can’t stop imagining how hard Harry’s nipples must be given the biting chill of the breeze, drawn tight and bitable just under that flimsy red fabric. Ugh. 

“I could teach you to skate if you want,” Louis offers, cringing even as she says it. _Quit,_ she internally reprimands herself before flopping down onto her towel and lifting her hips to hook her thumbs into the waistband of her trackies. Harry’s gaze skirts over to her just as she’s pulling them down, stretching the elastic over her thighs and bum before kicking them into a pile in the sand. 

There she lies, in the sporty black one-piece she’s had for so long that it’s faded into a dusky grey. It’s a little stretched out in some places and a little too tight in others, probably in a very unflattering way, but she wasn’t planning on hanging out with Gemma’s cute sister today, so she didn't think about it. For some reason, Harry’s gaze is _fixed_ on her, though, staring right down at her, dumbstruck and obvious, like she’s never seen a shitty old bathing suit in her entire life. Louis’s puzzled until she follows Harry’s gaze, which lands directly on her _crotch_. Then, she looks down, too, and sure enough, her pubes are showing, as they often are, considering she hardly ever bothers to trim them. They're poking out from the sides of her bathing suit, growing a centimeter or so down the insides of her thighs, and it's been a few years since she felt weird or embarrassed or ashamed about her own goddamned body hair, but Harry’s very cute and looking at her like she’s weird, so the whole thing makes her colour fiercely, cheeks heating up and eyes narrowing behind her aviators. 

“Have you never seen pubic hair before or summat?” she snaps defensively, even as she closes her legs and adjusts the crotch of her suit so that it’s less obvious. “Or have you not hit puberty yet?” 

It’s Harry’s turn to blush, and blush she does. Like, _spectacularly_ , all the way down her pale neck, up to the shell of her ears. Then she covers her face, squirming uncomfortably and squeaking a little. “Oh, god, m’so, so sorry, I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to _stare_ , god,” she mumbles, voice muffled by her palms. She sounds so genuinely regretful and mortified that Louis immediately forgives her, sitting up and scooting closer, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey, sorry, didn’t mean to be rude…I, like, _I realize_ most girls shave or wax or whatever, I just..I dunno. Most of my friends know I’m a giant dyke and don’t give a shit, so I forget that some people do. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” Louis adds, shrugging, glad on some level that she’s at least been given the opportunity to lay it out in the sand between them that she’s massively gay. 

Harry shakes her head so forcefully that her curls whip around her face. “No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable! I’m not…god, you must think I’m an absolute twat, I didn’t…I was just surprised, I guess. I feel so much pressure to shave, even though I hate it, and, like, I cleaned up in the shower quickly when my mum told me I should go to the beach, so that it would look tidy, you know? And it’s just such a stupid, pointless thing, but I wasted time to do it because I felt like I had to. And then here you are, and you just _didn’t_ , so I…I dunno. I think it’s really cool,” she sniffles, finishing lamely. 

Louis smiles, heart skipping a beat or ten. “Aw, Harry. You don’t _have_ to shave, yeah? I mean, I know it feels like you do, trust me, I felt like that for years, but it’s just another weird beauty standard men push on us, and I don’t care about men, like, at all, so I just decided I wasn’t gonna worry about it anymore. So, I don’t,” she explains, shrugging. “Like…why are men allowed to be ugly and hairy, and we aren’t? It’s so stupid.” 

“Oh, my god, I _know_ it is, like, I _know_ , logically,” Harry explains, rubbing her hands experimentally up her shaved legs, all the while stealing furtive glances at Louis’s, which of course are decidedly unshaved. “I think…I think I internalize a lot, you know? Like, we all do, which is why it’s so awesome that you don’t buy into it. When I was a 6th year, this idiot boy called me Hairy Harry because I had sort of, like, dark arm hair? And I was insecure about it for years, even though it lightened up in the summer and thinned out, and you can hardly see it at all now. But I still wore jumpers when it was hot and even shaved it off a few times for school dances, before I figured out those sucked,” she wrinkles her nose, either disgusted at the thought of school dances or at the memory of the bullshit she put herself through to feel pretty. Louis’s heart clenches. Harry is _so pretty_ \--she’s unreal, she’s so pretty--so gorgeous and sweet, and she deserves to _know_ this, to know that no matter how much hair she has on her body, it’s never gonna change her value as, like, a person or anything. 

“That’s awful,” Louis gasps, reaching for Harry’s hand and squeezing it. “Your arm hair is perfect, just so you know. And anyone who’s going to change how they feel about you based on how much hair you have or whether you shave or whatever is seriously not worth your time.” 

“I know that,” Harry says, squeezing Louis back and shooting her a watery smile. “But it still feels really nice to hear someone say it.” 

“If you ever, like, _ever_ need someone to remind you, just lemme know,” Louis says, feeling like she’s sounding sort of stupid and transparent but also like she has to say it anyway because she can’t bear the thought of Harry thinking she’s anything less than lovely. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, rubbing the back of her neck after she lets go of Louis’s hand, leaving it burning. “Um, do you think you could get my back? With sunscreen, I mean?” 

Louis raggedly inhales and nods. 

—-

The sun is hot even if the water is frigid, and under its steady burn, Louis feels herself getting drunk on Harry Styles. Harry and her smooth white skin slicked up under Louis’s hands as she rubs sunscreen into her shoulders, breath held, tongue in her teeth. Harry and her too-loud, squawking laughter, her soft and bouncy curls glittering with kicked-up water as they wade in, chased by waves. Louis can’t stop looking at her, eyes roving up and down the long pale stretch of her legs as she prances, high-stepping like a hackney pony before jumping on Nyla’s back, making her shriek as they both topple into the sea. 

When her hair’s all wet, it turns into a black slick across her brow, dripping and framing her face, which is open and bright as she cracks up and staggers to her feet, dripping ocean and sand. Veronica finds Louis and stands beside her, both ankle-deep in wet sand while the tide ripples past them, tugs at them. “You’re weird and quiet today,” she observes, picking at her nails nonchalantly, flipping long, salt-sticky dark tangles from one shoulder to the other. “You like Harry or something?” 

Usually, Louis would just shove Veronica into the water for suggesting such a thing, even if it was true. Instead, she flattens her lips out, feeling caught. “Or something,” she grumbles, arms crossed. 

Veronica’s well-groomed eyebrows rise into shocked, judgmental arcs. “Oh, you _do_ , you like her a lot,” she grins before flicking the strap of her black-and-white polka-dotted bathing suit top against her shoulder as if punctuating her sentence with the snap. “M’gonna tell Gemma.”

Louis wrinkles her nose, finally recovering enough from the initial shock of getting called out to effectively free her foot from the sand and kick a rooster tail of ocean water at Veronica, who shrieks, skittering away. “You are _not_ , you villain!”

Veronica laughs, sidling back to Louis and throwing her arm around her shoulder so that they can wade into the water together. “I won’t tell her, don’t worry,” she promises, their hips bumping. “I do think Harry’s on our team, though. She’s got that lesbian haircut, you know?” 

Louis shifts her gaze over to Harry, who’s currently nothing more than a dark-haired dot bobbing above the waves, spitting water at Nyla and Leann and laughing in whooping, hysterical gales. She’s so _cute_ , so clumsy with her unsteady dog-paddle, her huge mouth grinning that huge grin. Butterflies flutter inside Louis, and she shrugs, refusing to look at Veronica as she admits, “Yeah…yeah, s’a pretty lesbian haircut, if I do say so myself.” 

“Good luck, godspeed,” Veronica sing-songs, shoving Louis into the next wave with both hands in the center of her back. Louis pushes off and into the surf, which is breathtakingly cold as it closes over her head, salty and gritty against her fingers as she flails, trying to find a steady stroke amid the tide-pulls. When she surfaces, she’s somewhere near the other girls, who are all giggling and kicking and trying to keep their heads above water, buoyant in the salt. 

“Harold,” she mumbles as she swims closer to Harry, teeth chattering. Their legs tangle together in the water for a second, slick and private, before she lets herself float back a little. “If I start to drown, it’s your responsibility to save me from certain death, yeah?” 

Harry grins and weakly salutes before letting her arm smack back down into the water with a noisy splash. “I will try my very hardest.” 

They giggle and mess about until Louis’s legs get tired, and she lets the tide take her back in, discussing each wave with Harry, whether or not they should go under or over. Even though the other girls are right there, it feels like it’s just them, just Louis and Harry alone in the whole ocean, two girls giggling and sucking in desperate breaths in unison before ducking under the crest of the bigger waves. The sea always makes everything feel magical, and crushes are magic in and of themselves, so this sea-salted crush feels immense in its fury, like it’s bigger than it should be, every wave and every sunset and every grain of sand rough and silty under their feet when they finally make it back to the shore. 

As she stumbles in waist-deep water, Harry sort of collapses onto Louis, hands on her waist, forehead lolling on her shoulder as she giggles. Louis’s heart stops, stomach plummeting as her hands fly unbidden to the back of Harry’s neck, where they clasp loosely in her nest of curls, in the wet mop of her very, very lesbian haircut. “God, I forgot how, like, _exhausting_ the sea is,” Harry says, breath hot on Louis’s neck. “Could have a kip right here.” 

Louis is giddy, the sort of dizzy-tipsy she gets when she’s had too much champagne, too many lagers. Harry makes her like this; Harry, who smells like sea and salt and perfume and girl, soft and pretty, the pink insides of shells at the beach. Louis wants her, wants to push a hand up into her hair and make a fist, tilt her back and kiss her hard. Louis wants to palm down under her bikini bottoms, feel her skin where it’s cold from the ocean, warm the sweet swell of her little bum up under her palms. She wants a lot of things, so much that she feels choked with it, silent and half-wheezing as Harry pulls away. 

They link arms and jump waves, shrieking and sliding together, so much skin so slick and slippery that it’s hard to know where Harry ends and Louis begins. When they wade out to where the water is knee-high at its deepest, Louis catches Harry staring at her again, eyes trained on the crotch of her bathing suit, which has ridden high enough up into her arse that it’s pulled tight, revealing even more hair than before. She adjusts it self-consciously, and Harry looks abruptly away, but they don’t talk about it at all. 

—-

Eventually, everyone gets tired and staggers in from the waves to collapse in a heap on their towels, sea-water evaporating up off their skin under the steady bake of the sun. Louis shivers, eyes shut tight against the glare, sky vast and cloudless above her as she pants, acutely aware of Harry’s body on the towel next to her, even though they’re technically not touching. She can hear Nyla rummaging round in the bags for something, but she’s only half-paying attention, focused instead on counting Harry’s steady inhalations, memorizing the rhythm of her breath. 

“Oi, Tommo,” Nyla says, leaning over Louis so that her unruly dyed-blonde hair drips all over her chest unpleasantly. “I can’t find the crisps.” 

Louis’s eyes fly open, and she rubs her face in irritation. “Fuck, I think I forgot that bag…put it in the boot so they wouldn’t get crushed.” 

“Can’t eat dip without crisps,” Leann says, as if this is absolute fact. Louis snorts, forever amused by Leann’s complete and utter rigidity about every single thing, always. 

“Well, guess one of us is just gonna have to hike back to our terrible parking spot and rescue them,” Louis sighs, knowing full well it’s going to be her, since she left them in the first place. It’s fine; she could use a break from her friends anyway, twenty minutes or so alone with her own head to get a grip on this whole Harry nonsense. Sober up from so many maddening brushes of slick skin against slick skin, soft and private under the steady crash of waves. She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I’ll go.” 

Harry sits up, brushing sand off her thighs. “Can I come?” she asks, cocking her head and squinting in the light, pursing her raspberry lips. “I forgot m’sunnies in the car.”

Louis should just offer to grab the sunnies in question, obviously, to save herself from time alone with Harry Styles. This is literally the _opposite_ of her objective, which is to get some _space_ from her. But Harry looks so cute digging her red painted toes into the sand and looking up at Louis hopefully, curls salty and messy, tousled by the breeze. Louis _wants_ her, wants to be close to her, can’t possibly say no, so she offers a hand and hauls Harry to her feet. “Course...c’mon.” 

They link arms and trip across the dunes, staggering up the golden stretch of beach together and promising to return as soon as possible, and with crisps. Louis tries very hard to ignore the look Veronica gives her as she passes, narrowed eyes and a knowing smirk. 

The breeze buffets her back as they turn away from the sea, and she shudders in her cold bathing suit, calves aching from the exertion of walking on sand, gaze skirting toward Harry inevitably. She steals infinite glances, capturing little bits of Harry and committing them to memory like snapshots: her pink knees, her soft tummy, her bony ankles, her padded hips that swell over the waistband of her bikini. Louis wants to lay her hand there, squeeze those little bits of softness that look like they were fashioned to fill her hands. Harry is _perfect_ , a coltish teenage mess that’s half angles and sharpness, half awkward pudge, like she grew into herself too quickly. Louis loves it, wants to kiss all her curves and bones, lick all the salt up from her skin. 

They don’t talk for the first few blocks, until Harry eventually lets out a deep sigh and says, “You didn’t put your trackies back on,” like it’s an observation that _means_ something. 

Louis is sort of baffled and shakes her fringe out, stupidly self-conscious again. It’s been a few years since she was a real _teen_ , and she forgets the protocol of teen-girl culture, the rules and expectations she only half-tried to pantomime before actively deciding they were impossible to fake and she should just give up. “Erm, was I supposed to?” she asks, shrugging. 

“No, just…you didn’t shave, and you still wore a bathing suit, and you even walked out in the _world_ , like, past the beach, without covering up. It’s just really amazing, and, like…I dunno. You truly don’t give a fuck, which is, like…admirable,” she mumbles, eyes fixed on the pavement under her sandals, shoulders bunched about her ears. She’s _shy_ about this, and _sincere_ on top of that, and Louis’s heart has never leapt so fiercely and suddenly into her throat at anything. 

“S’not a big deal. You, too, could be incredibly lazy and let your pubes hang out in public like me,” she offers, trying to make a joke but failing somewhat at mustering up a joking tone. She sounds quiet and serious, but it must work in her favour because Harry smiles. 

“Yeah, I _could_ , but I, like, never will because m’always gonna care what other people think too much,” she explains. “Which is why it’s admirable, when you do it.” 

They share a few more minutes of loaded, private silence before they make it to the secluded side street where the car is parked. Louis unlocks it, opening the driver’s side so that she can pop the boot lid. Harry sits down on the curb, making no motion at all to look for her sunnies. Almost as if she came along on this trek to the car for other reasons. Ulterior motives. To talk about Louis’s pubic hair, for one. “Your sunnies,” Louis announces, standing up and dropping them into Harry’s lap. 

“Louis,” Harry says then, flushing as her voice comes out sort of tight, like she’s been gearing up to say this, whatever it is, _waiting_. The stilted urgency of it all bowls Louis over, so she sits down in the car sideways, facing Harry, braced against whatever she might have to say. Harry’s staring decidedly at the gutter, gaze fixed between her turned-in toes. “You know how I, like…said I was having a hard summer?” 

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, heart thundering. 

“I…well. What happened is that I came out to my best friend,” she says in a rush, and Louis’s heart _breaks_. Cracks down the middle for all the younger versions of herself she hid or burnt or recreated from ash, for all the girls who have ever had to come out to their best friend only to be treated like a stranger, a threat. “Or, who I thought was my best friend,” Harry adds, sounding more hurt than bitter. “A few weeks ago, I told her. I was so scared, and I planned it and everything, but ultimately, I thought she’d be okay about it because we’ve been friends for ages, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis affirms, nodding. “Erm, was she…not okay with it?” 

Harry shakes her head, frowning, rubbing at her ankle bone. “No. Or, she said she was, but she hasn’t been returning my texts, and she’s acting, like, _super_ weird and distant and, like…she was my best friend. We did everything together, you know, and I didn’t like her like that, she was, like, my _sister,_ but she’s been treating me like some...I dunno. Predator or something. It makes me feel awful.” 

“Oh, Harry,” Louis sighs, leaning forward to rest a tentative hand on Harry’s knee, feeling so strange and hurt and sympathetic and confused, all at once. She knows what it’s like to be ghosted by straight friends when they find out, she knows what it’s like to be treated as if every idle touch or look is inherently dirty, threatening. At the same time, she’s scared to offer Harry comfort or counsel on this topic when only minutes ago, she _was_ checking her out, dreaming of her lips, wishing she could touch her. This probably makes her the weirdest and creepiest queer mentor in the world, but she’d never take advantage, so here she is, giving Harry one short, reassuring squeeze before snatching her hand back, feeling guilty, feeling like too much. “That’s awful, Hazza, really. Not a good friend at all, and m’so sorry that happened to you.” 

“S’fine...made me realize what a twat she is,” Harry sniffles, shrugging, eyes still trained on the pavement beneath her feet. “Sorry to unload this on you, just, there’s, like, no one else I can proper talk to about it.” 

“That’s okay, you can tell me, I’m, like…well, I’ve been through this sort of thing. I know how it is,” Louis explains, settling back into the car, keeping a measured distance. 

“You lost friends when you came out?” Harry asks, looking up for the first time, eyes brilliant and so green, so green they hurt. 

“Sure, of course,” Louis says, remembering. “But none of me real friends, yeah? They stuck with me because they don’t care. Which is how it should be. You’ll find real friends, plus you have me’n the rest of the girls today, none of them give two shits, and Veronica’s bi, anyway. We joke the other two are as well, they just don’t know it yet.” 

Harry smiles a watery smile. “Thanks…like, really, thank you. For inviting me out today. I really needed it. To sort of…feel less alone.” 

Louis smiles back, even as her stomach drops and curls into a mess of confused knots. This is what happens, again and again, pushing feelings into a box and locking them up, quarantining them to save them from sullying the sweetness of a moment, of Harry confessing to her, trusting her. “Anytime,” she says lightly. 

“Also,” Harry adds, cocking her head and flushing deeply, cheeks a sudden and vivid red as she rubs at the back of her neck. “I wanted to tell you something else…,” she starts, covering her face with her palms for a few seconds, like she’s embarrassed by the mere thought of whatever she’s about to tell Louis. “I just wanted to tell you...the real reason I was staring earlier today, when you took your shorts off?” 

“…Yes?” Louis asks, cocking her head, scalp prickling anxiously. 

Harry takes a deep breath, like she’s about to dive into water. Louis watches, and can’t breathe at all. 

“I think…. Ithinkyourpubesarereallyhot,” is what Harry says. 

Louis stares, heart pounding, ears ringing in absolute disbelief. Harry couldn’t…she _couldn’t_ be serious, there’s no _way,_ it’s just…it’s too much, so Louis shakes her head, squeezing her thighs together reflexively. “You…you what?” she asks, voice baffled, incredulous. 

Harry doesn't look up, just shakes her head, like she can’t believe the mess she’s just gotten herself into. “I just…I think you’re so fucking fit, and I had to tell you,” she says miserably, and _oh_ , oh. Louis can’t ignore that, can’t ignore the spike of violent heat that zips up her spine before collecting low and filthy in her stomach. Harry thinks… _Harry_ thinks she's fit. Harry doesn’t think she's been weird, hasn’t banished her to a mentor role. “I don’t mean anything by it,” she continues, so pink and embarrassed as she babbles. “I just really, really, _really_ didn’t want you to think I was judging you or being rude, I just…I stared because I think it’s really _hot_ and looks really good, and I just sort of couldn’t stop looking. I'm _so,_ so sorry, I know you’d never like me like that, that you just see me as your mate’s little sister, but I _had_ to let you know why I was really looking, in case you thought—“

Louis’s voice comes out a strangled, breathless whisper as she says, “You wanna see?” And maybe that’s too much, maybe that’s _insane,_ but it feels right in this moment, when all she can think of doing is giving Harry what she wants. And right now, in the sudden charged heat surrounding them, she can tell that what Harry wants is to see. 

Harry stops, eyes getting wide and pretty mouth hanging open. “What?” she asks, voice so low that it's hardly anything more than a scrape. 

“Do you wanna see? My hair?” Louis clarifies, spreading her legs a few inches to indicate to Harry that she’s serious, to show her what she’s already been stealing glances at all day, the little strips of unruly pubes poking out of the crotch of her suit. 

Harry’s cheeks are so red, her _mouth_ is so red. Red and wet and open, eyes shot with pupil, very nearly chasing out all the green, pushing it to the edge. “You’d…you’d let me?” she whispers, the words trembling out. 

Louis reaches between her legs, drawing the tip of her index finger up the crease of her inner thigh where her pubic hair is already showing, something so natural and innocuous suddenly seeming obscene. She hears Harry’s breath catch, and she _throbs_ at the sound. “Yeah, m’asking you, aren’t I?” 

“Oh, god,” Harry breathes, leaning forward perhaps involuntarily, swaying in the space between them, head drifting toward Louis’s parted legs. Louis tilts back, spreads out a little, shifting further back into the car so that she can get her thighs wider, show Harry more. “I…fuck. Of course, I wanna see,” Harry says, licking her lips. 

“You can, it’s okay,” Louis tells her, feeling so fucking drunk that she might pass out. The whole world feels hazy, the distant crash of the tide and the cries of the seagulls so far away, forgotten. There’s nothing but here and now, this suspended moment of confession at an altar, Harry getting on her knees to lean forward, to fit herself between Louis’s thighs. And it’s so _surreal_ , how everything changes and time just slows down, just disappears. 

Louis settles back even further and hooks a trembling index finger into the already stretched out and somewhat threadbare crotch of her suit so that she can pull it aside, exposing herself. It feels like the filthiest fucking thing she’s ever done, just showing Harry Styles what she’s already half-seen, her chestnut pubic hair all matted down from the sea, thick enough that it obscures almost everything lying behind it. 

Still, Harry murmurs wordlessly in her throat, an awed, broken sort of sound, like she’s been _moved._ Louis’s gut churns, and she wonders if Harry can see that she’s already gotten so _wet_ , just from this. “Oh, my god,” Harry gasps quietly, just staring, _staring_ , eyes wide and stunned as if she’s afraid she might miss something if she blinks. “Can I…can I touch you? Please?” she asks, and Louis lets out an unexpected huff of nervous breath that she didn't even know she had been holding. So this isn’t some weird instructional thing, this isn’t two girls at a sleepover--show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. Harry wants to _touch,_ she’s asking to _touch_. That’s sex, basically. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Louis says, touching herself first, to part the hair a little, pulling some curls aside so that Harry can see more. 

Harry whimpers, licking her lips again as her tremulous hand brushes up Louis’s thigh, higher and higher, in slow motion, until she's reverently rubbing her thumb up the outer edge of Louis’s pubic hair. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Louis, oh, my god,” Harry breathes gently, tipping forward into the gutter on her knees and letting her head drift down to Louis's other thigh, just _looking,_ drinking her in as she touches gently, gently, gently. Combing her fingers through the hair, brushing skin with her knuckles but mostly just petting, soft and slow and adoring. Louis wants to die; this is probably the most intimate sexual interaction of her entire life, and it’s happening in a parked car somewhere along a secluded seaside street, with _Harry Styles_ , so perfect, so sweet. “So hot,” Harry chokes out. 

“You think so?” Louis asks, voice sounding far away and insignificant as she idly trails a finger up her slit, further parting the hair so that Harry can see more of her, more skin, more darkness. 

“God, yes...had a huge crush on you for years. Always making excuses to hang around and get you water and stuff when you were over to see Gem,” Harry explains, this _impossible_ thing. “Can hardly believe this is happening.” 

“Fuck,” Louis moans, throbbing so hard she feels like she must be _dripping_ , or at least visibly slick. Harry leans almost imperceptibly closer, and Louis’s stomach plummets at the huff of breath she lets out, hot and damp and wanting. She can feel herself getting even wetter, feels herself burning up under Harry’s intense, hungry gaze. Louis’s breath catches on an inhale, and she dips the tip of her finger inside herself, feeling where she’s getting hotter, more molten. Then she smears it up over her clit, gasping at the feeling, how _hard_ she is, just from being looked at, teased. 

Harry watches, rapt, whimpering again with her brow furrowed deeply. “Fuck, _god_ , you look so good. I want…,” she trails off, swallowing a noisy mouthful of spit, and Louis can hardly breathe, hardly _think_. 

“What do you want?” she manages to ask, hips pumping into the air without even meaning to, humping nothing, just bringing herself closer to Harry’s face, close enough to _smell_ , probably. The thought makes her shudder. 

Harry’s eyes flutter closed, like she’s overwhelmed, and she accidentally digs her nails into Louis’s thigh. Then she opens them again to stare hungrily at where Louis’s touching herself, using the slick to get everything so wet that she shines, so Harry can _see_ what she’s doing, how fucking turned on Louis is. Harry bites her lip before admitting in a rush, “I want …wanna bury my face in there, in your hair,” she murmurs, breath hot, eyes fixed on Louis’s finger, following its light and teasing movements as it smoothes down the curls. “Fuck, just wanna taste...wanna eat you out, Louis, _god_ , I’d eat you out so good, would _die_ to eat you out,” she whines, grinding closer on her knees, so desperate and ruined already in her little red bikini. 

Louis can’t _believe_ it, can’t _believe_ how wrong she was about what Harry needs from her. “Don’t have to die, Hazza, just, c’mere, s’okay,” she says gently, tangling the fingers of her free hand into the salt-sticky mess of Harry’s hair and drawing her closer, close enough that the tip of her nose nudges into Louis’s messy curls. Harry cries out, a half-sob that sounds _grateful_ , even as Louis pauses, makes a fist, and pulls her back, firmly but gently, for just a moment. “Have you done this before?” she asks. 

“No,” Harry admits. “But I fantasize about it, like, every day. Just…show me what to do, tell me what feels good...just wanna make you feel good and taste n’stuff...I’ll be good, promise,” she babbles, twisting her head against Louis’s grip, grinding her knees into the pavement desperately. It’s so fucking hot that Louis’s coming apart, gasping as Harry remembers she has hands and palms over Louis’s mound before spreading her open, parting her so that she’s exposed, pink and slick and swollen and wanting. 

“Please,” Harry groans, staring and staring, and Louis caves, letting go of her hair. 

“Okay,” she says, and in seconds, she’s whiting out, bucking into the sudden, searing heat that is Harry’s pretty mouth. 

It’s so much, so intense. Harry doesn't know what she’s doing, but it doesn't matter because enthusiasm makes up for finesse when you have lips as soft and plush and eager as Harry’s--Harry, who’s groaning and sucking and licking like it’s her last fucking meal, hands all over Louis’s thighs, sliding between her and the car seat so that she can grip her arse in greedy fists. “ _Fuck_ , Harry, Haz,” Louis keens, twisting up off the seat to chase the slick of Harry’s mouth as she pulls away to _look_ , lips parted and plush and shiny, face stunned like she can’t believe her luck. Harry shoulders into the car and pushes Louis across the front seat to get deeper, tilting her back so that the divider between the driver and passenger sides bites into her back, but Louis doesn’t even care; Harry’s licking up _inside_ her, tongue-fucking her slow and dirty and hungry, groaning all the while. 

Louis tries to keep her bathing suit to the side as best she can, but Harry is _everywhere_ , clumsy and desperate, rubbing her face against Louis’s inner thigh as she fucks her, like she wants friction wherever she can get it. She pulls away with a smack at some point to suck in a messy inhalation, and Louis manages to ask, “Taste good?” 

“Jesus Christ, Louis,” Harry whines, ducking back down to lick all over her with a sloppy tongue, up her slit and into her pubes, movements graceless, blind, and clumsy with pure want. “Best thing I ever tasted, m’dying,” she moans, sucking with her huge mouth open so wide that there’s no precision to it, no goal. Louis doesn’t care, though; it’s so _wet,_ and she’s so turned on, and Harry’s so _gorgeous_ , with her hair rucked up into a mess, spots of colour on her cheeks as she pulls away, looking for instruction, maybe. 

“Don’t die, just…come back, feels good,” Louis slurs, grinding uselessly in the air until Harry fucks up into her again, holding her open so that she can flick her tongue in and out, licking her where she’s dripping, like she’s feeding from the source. Louis lets her head fall back against the passenger seat, eyes screwed shut and hips working in messy spasms. It’s not the most artful head she’s ever had, but it’s certainly the most eager, the _loudest_ , the sloppiest, and she loves that about it, loves how moved and satisfied and _famished_ Harry seems, how eager she is to just _eat_. 

Harry’s mostly avoiding her clit, and Louis’s sort of going crazy. She doesn’t know if Harry’s just so wrapped up in licking _inside_ that she’s neglecting it, or if it’s a deliberate intent to tease, but she’s throbbing so strongly and wants Harry’s mouth so badly that she can hardly stand it, is writhing all over the front seat by the time she reaches down to pull apart her outer lips and show Harry what she’s missing, something hard and sweet to suck on. “Harry, baby,” she whimpers, feeling so lost, so hoarse, so wrecked. “Right here, love, can you—”

“Oh, fuck, yes, oh, god,” Harry babbles in a fucked out voice, pulling back just to regard Louis with half-lidded eyes. “You want me to suck on it?” she whispers, licking those obscene fucking lips, making Louis’s breath catch as she bucks up into the air involuntarily. “S’not too sensitive?” 

“No, I like it, you can suck...please,” Louis begs, eyes fluttering closed in overwhelm as Harry presses a messy, soft kiss right on the hood of her clit, mouthing over it reverently. She curses, fucking into Harry’s lips, stomach tightening up. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come, love, just keep—ah—,” her voice cuts out as Harry fits her mouth around it and sucks, flicking and swirling her tongue around her, so wet and slick and sloppy. “That’s _so_ good, s’perfect, just keep doing that, baby, and you have me,” Louis tells her, and Harry whimpers, pushing deeper, like she loves the praise. 

It only takes a few minutes of idle, hungry sucking for Louis to come, limbs locking up and spasming on either side of Harry’s head as she convulses through wave after wave of it, vision nothing but haze and static and madness. _God_ , it’s so _much_ , and she’s shuddering and bucking long after the initial punch of it wears off. Louis sort of collapses then, melting into the car as Harry stays between her legs, nuzzling into her messy thatch of pubic hair, sighing and murmuring and whimpering to herself, letting her tongue dip into Louis where she’s wettest every few seconds, just to taste. 

Louis thinks she’s done for, that she won’t be able to come more than once, even if Harry tries, but the licking is so self-indulgent and idle and rhythmless that before she can even fully process her first orgasm, she’s whining, pumping her hips, and seeking heat.. “Harry…I can, c’mere, I can come for you again,” Louis gasps breathlessly, getting her hand into Harry’s hair once more and guiding her back to her clit. “Just…soft, make your mouth soft,” she instructs, and Harry groans, nodding and opening up so that she can mouth gently over Louis’s clit. She stays slack and sweet until Louis can take more, grabbing her by her hair and surging forward, and then she's back to her desperate, fierce sucking, eyes shut tightly in bliss as she brings Louis off once more, twice more, in rapid succession. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Louis wheezes after the third mind-numbing orgasm, her legs jelly-shaky and her stomach’s in knots. She pushes Harry away because she’s pretty sure she _has to_ , otherwise she’ll just keep going, keep eating Louis out, like it’s an alternative to breathing. Louis suddenly dissolves into laughter, so giddy and stunned and overwhelmed, so _amazed_ that this could happen, right here with the sun and the sea watching them. “Jesus, Hazza, that was…fuck. You’re so good at that.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asks dreamily, wiping her swollen lips on the back of her hand reluctantly, eyes glassed over, cheeks blotchy and red, almost like she’s been crying. She looks dazed but happy, like she just got off an amusement park ride, and Louis's insides clench because she’s pretty sure she’s already half in love with this girl, that she’s falling, fallen. 

“Yeah, really good,” Louis tells her quietly, sitting up with some difficulty, gaze falling on Harry, whose knees are skinned from the pavement, a wet spot soaking through the red crotch of her bikini. _Fuck_. Louis’s heart stops. “Did you like it?” 

“It was the best thing I’ve ever done,” Harry answers simply, sitting back on her haunches and looking up at Louis in a dazed sort of wonder. 

“C’mere,” Louis croaks, holding out her arms so that Harry can collapse into them, limp and wrung out. There's no resistance, making it easy for Louis to pull her up into her lap so that she’s straddling her thighs, split and quaking and right there for Louis to see, to touch. She thumbs cautiously over the damp crotch of her bikini, loving the way Harry gasps and squirms. “Can I touch you? Under this?” 

“Please, god,” Harry hisses, pushing herself into Louis’s hand, grinding obscenely against her open palm. “Feel how wet…I basically came the second I got my mouth on your cunt...came in my bathing suit,” she whispers low and filthy into Louis’s ear, and _Jesus Christ_ , it’s not what Louis was expecting; it’s shocking in its crassness, its candor, and it sends needles of heat into her stomach. Harry--her mate’s _kid sister, Harry_ \--is spread open on top of her, fucking down hard and deliberate into her hand. It’s so fucking dirty, so good, and Louis’s shaking as she gets her fingers up under Harry’s bikini, feeling her where she’s nothing but slick and fire. 

“Oh, god, baby, you’re a mess,” she marvels, easily sliding two fingers up into Harry as deeply as she can go. Harry groans and bears down, filling herself, wanting it _so_ fucking badly that Louis’s gut flips over once again. “Can’t wait to feel you come, to see you, bet you’re so pretty right here,” she murmurs, shifting her hand a bit so that she can thumb over Harry’s clit, which is so swollen that Louis’s _mouth_ waters as she imagines sucking it.

“You can see, if you want to,” Harry says with mock shyness, reaching down to untie her bikini bottoms and reveal her neatly trimmed triangle of pubic hair, the sort of closely-shorn length that only comes from something recently shaved growing back in. She blushes, adding, “S’not as hot as yours, obviously, but I hope you like—”

“No, you’re fucking perfect, c’mere,” Louis growls, not able to stand another second of Harry's weight on top of her, her _breath_ on her lips, without kissing that filthy mouth. Louis lets her fingers slide out of Harry before reaching for her face to take it between her palms and kiss her _hard,_ stealing her breath, licking inside her soft and sweet lips, tasting the spice and tang of her own come mixed with ocean salt, sunshine, honey. It’s everything good and pure and perfect, and Louis could kiss her for hours, could drown in this. 

Harry’s sloppy at kissing, too, clumsy and unpracticed, but it’s easy to make her submit, to open her mouth so that Louis can fuck it with her tongue, get deep, choke her. They kiss and kiss until they’re grinding together, until Harry’s rubbing herself all over the front of Louis’s bathing suit, making it slick. “Fuck,” Louis groans, pulling away to look between them at Harry’s desperate bucking. “Get in the back...need to taste you,” she tells her urgently, pushing Harry so that she can climb off her lap and clamber over the seat, watching her lie there on the stained upholstery, eyes wide and dark, legs spread so that Louis can see _everything_ , see where she’s soft and pink and delectable looking, pulsing under the intensity of Louis’s stare. 

“It’s okay?” she asks, an absurd fucking question, and Louis’s mouth is already watering, her stomach nothing but drops and knots and more drops. 

“Absolutely gorgeous, Harry, fuck,” she assures her, crawling into the back seat and jamming herself in the foot space on her knees between Harry’s legs so that she can bend over her prone body, which is pale and heaving and sweat-dewy in the filtered afternoon sunlight. She slides her hands up Harry’s thighs, thumbing her inner lips apart so that she can see her clit, the prettiest fucking thing she’s ever gotten to look at, let alone _taste_. ‘“Want me to?” she asks, mostly being cheeky, bending down so that her breath huffs out on it, making Harry squirm. 

“Please, please, please,” Harry begs, and Louis likes doing this too much to ever be a tease. She holds Harry open and licks inside, just a single, hot, messy stripe up her slit, abdominals tensing at the hot salty-spicy flavour of girl. Harry twists up into her mouth, gasping, arms above her head and skin suddenly prickling in a sheen of perspiration. 

“Good?” Louis asks, before kissing her again, deep and wet. 

“Louis,” she pants, bucking desperately, motion beyond her control. “So fucking good...already close to coming again, gonna come in your mouth.” 

Her voice is so low and shot, raspy in her throat as her head lolls back and forth on the back seat, and _fuck_ , she’s gorgeous, the perfect girl, and Louis wants all of her. She sucks her own fingers off before easing them inside again, crooking them so that Harry cries out, twitches, locks up. Then, Louis gets her mouth over Harry’s mound, lashes fluttering against her cheeks at the spicy-slickness of her, metal and sea-salt and musk and heaven. Harry tastes so fucking _good_ , young and flooded and raw, and Louis loses herself in it a little, finger-fucks her slowly and deeply with one hand while holding her apart with the other so that she can suck, lick, drown, and drown some more. 

Harry sobs and writhes, so much movement and so many filthy rolls of her hips that it’s hard for Louis to stay put, but she’s good at this; she knows how to lean her weight forward into her shoulders to pin Harry’s thighs down, knows how to keep her on her back. She can _feel_ Harry getting close, the pulse of her walls around her fingers, the mess sluicing out onto her palm as she sucks. Harry gets so _wet_ \--she’s one of the wettest girls that Louis’s ever had--and it’s incomprehensibly hot, all over her face and burning down her throat. When Harry comes, there’s even _more_ of it, and Harry’s an absolute wreck under her as she sobs her way through her orgasm. 

Louis sucks idly until Harry stops squirming, then she lets her go, pressing a few soft-lipped kisses to her clit, thrilled at the way Harry keens and bucks, such a ruined, animalistic sound. “Oh, my god,” she gasps, lying there with her chest heaving as Louis wipes her mouth, licks her lips, and kisses all over Harry’s soft white thighs up to her trembling belly. “I can’t believe…,” Harry giggles, face scrunching up so cute and bright and brilliant. “I can’t believe I just got fucked by Louis Tomlinson in her _car_.” 

Louis grins, dragging herself awkwardly out of the cramped space on the floor and up on the seat beside Harry, their skin adhering together in so many sweat-sticky places. The whole car smells like sex, and Louis’s drunk again, dizzy and giddy and unable to keep herself from dissolving into smiles. “You say my name like m’famous,” she giggles, spreading her hand up Harry’s ribcage, stunned that she’s still here, that she’s so _soft_. 

“Well, sort of. I dunno...you’re the only other lesbian I’ve ever met so you’re sort of a legend, you know. And you’re older and so fit and… god, I’ve always had the biggest crush on you,” she finishes, turning pink, beaming. 

“Legend? Hope I lived up to it,” Louis murmurs, kissing up Harry’s sternum, tasting her sweat. She pushes her fingers tentatively under the cup of her bikini so that she can feel Harry’s nipple harden under her palm. She can’t stand to touch and not see, though, so she pushes the fabric aside to play with it, thumbing over the peak, drawn tight and pink and delicious. “Had a crush on you, too, by the way,” she adds, smiling against Harry’s skin. “Always thought you were so cute...knew you were gay, I could tell.” 

“You could!?” Harry squeaks, trying and failing to hide her smile behind her palm. “That’s…sort of embarrassing. But mostly…validating, or something.” She watches Louis touch her, eyes fixed on her fingers as they brush over her nipple, cupping the small swell of her breast, hardly more than a handful. “And really…you had a crush on me? Thought you just saw me as a little sister or something.” 

Louis shakes her head before bending down and flicking her tongue over Harry’s nipple, listening to her breath catch and then pulling back enough to murmur, “Yeah, definitely. Felt proper awful about it, actually, since you’re Gem’s sister, and younger…but god, yes. You’re so fucking perfect, Harry, so sexy.”

Harry shudders under her lips, and Louis can’t help but get her mouth on her again, spread wide and hot as she alternates between nipples, sucking and chewing until they’re raw, until Harry’s trembling, gasping. “God,” she whines, hands in Louis’s hair. “I had no idea it could be, like…so _good._ ” 

“It’s always good, with girls,” Louis tells her, hands all over her body, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “But not this good. This is…fuck. S’perfect, Harry.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, squirming. “I’ve been okay? I have, like…no experience,” she admits. 

“No, you’re amazing, so good. I’d love to show you other things, though, show you everything. If you want,” she says, scooting up to kiss Harry on the mouth, to tongue her plush, ruined lips apart. “S’that okay?” she asks as she pulls back a centimeter. 

Harry inhales shakily, digging her nails into Louis’s shoulders like she might go somewhere if she doesn't hold her, reel her in. “God, I want that so badly,” Harry breathes before stealing a few soft and messy kisses, just slick presses of their lips together, shared breath and the easy slide of spit. “I’d do anything with you...I’ve already thought about it so much. You could show me everything, and I’d be so good,” she tells her. 

“Yeah? I could show you the world?” Louis jokes, kissing Harry hard before mouthing down her neck. “Shining, shimmering, splendid?” 

“Heeeeeyyy, Shut up,” Harry giggles, suddenly ticklish, pulling away. They stare at each other for a few loaded moments, bright eyes and all the magic of the sea and the sky and the sun and the surf trapped here between the back and front windows like a ship in a bottle. Louis’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “We should probably go back…Nyla’s gonna be missing those crisps. And they might think we’ve died,” Harry says.

“Probably,” Louis sighs, sitting and adjusting herself, everything feeling slick and swollen as she fixes the crotch of her bathing suit. She thinks of Harry’s eager mouth, her lashing tongue, and shudders. “But, like…can we hang out soon? After this? Like, tomorrow?” 

Harry beams, lying back and retying her bikini, fixing the cups over her little tits and looking for all the world like the loveliest angel, soft and pale and glowing. “Yes, please,” she says. “You can even take me out on a date.” 

Louis’s stomach drops, and she wonders how fast is too fast to fall in love. But then she remembers that girls move at a different speed, that everything’s sugar and syrup, that the burn of sunshine slows down time, solidifies filaments into solids, love can grow like rock candy. “I’d absolutely love that,” she tells her, struggling with the car door and staggering out of it, feeling like the whole _world_ knows what they’ve just done and not caring one bit. “C’mere, love.” 

She hauls Harry up after her, and they get the crisps from the boot, touching and giggling and stealing lingering kisses all the while, on cheeks and necks and shoulders. Harry cards a hand through Louis’s short, thoroughly messy hair, and it feels so easy, like they’ve been touching like this forever. Maybe they _will_ touch like this forever. Louis feels like it’s possible, like anything’s possible, like Harry is magic and makes things infinite. 

“Take me back to the water, yeah?” Harry asks, hooking her arm through Louis’s and dropping her head onto her shoulder shyly, even though Louis is technically shorter. It feels right, though, as all things do when the world is magic, and as Harry puts her heart-framed sunnies on and they head back to the sea, Louis smiles, and smiles, and smiles. 

—-


End file.
